In the Time of Kings (25 page)

A hundred yards later, the alley jags around a corner and opens up into a wider street. I can see further ahead now. At the end of the street, the River Tweed writhes lazily like a bloated snake. The men are moving more quickly, twisting back and forth as they wind their way around broken down carts and toppled market stalls.

Wisps of smoke drift through the night air. Sparks crackle in a clump of thatch at roof’s edge of the building next to us. The smell of ash claws at my throat. I swallow, but a cough tears free so hard I nearly gag. A calloused hand clamps over my mouth. I stiffen.

“Hush!” my father growls. He grabs my elbow and jerks me onward. Toward the river.

We creep past the last building onto a sandy beach. That morning, the beach had been littered with boats, but as Archibald and Keith descended with their hundreds, the villagers had run here and rowed out into the mouth of the Tweed and along the shore, away from the mayhem. I had watched them from a distance, their oars dipping in frantic rhythm while the town went up in flames.

Across the water, the shore climbs sharply upward, the base of Berwick’s walls meeting with a steep, rocky hill. Occasionally, a face peeks between the crenels, watching. I wonder if they see us, know we’re coming to help. I hope to God they don’t start shooting at us.

A pair of ducks paddle upriver — two black silhouettes bobbing on a sea of silver. I follow their course and see, to my left, the bridge we are to cross. Or what’s left of a bridge, actually.

“Oh my God.” I crouch next to Duncan. A shiver spreads from my chest, quickly engulfing my entire body in tremors. “We’re supposed to cross that ... bridge, climb that hill ... and somehow get inside Berwick?”

“You were the first to volunteer,” Duncan says, “were you not?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And you were expecting what?”

I have no answer. At least nothing that won’t sound entirely idiotic. Everything had looked different from so far away. But up close, I can see the gaps in the planks of the bridge. Some of the stones that make up the piers have been jarred loose, too. I’m not sure how two hundred of us are supposed to get across the river, up the hill and over the walls unassaulted. Sounds like a death wish to me.

Then I noticed the ropes coiled over the shoulders of those in the fore. Hope zings inside my chest. A dozen men are already scaling the framework of the bridge underneath, securing the ropes wherever they can. Soon, another dozen men scramble up after them, passing along more coils of rope. The rest of us huddle at the base of the first and second piers, hidden from view. While we wait, I scan the hillside on the opposite bank. Every stone stands immutable, every blade of grass unwavering in the still night air.

The ropes are now strung from end to end of the bridge, looped among the timbers that once supported the planks. Every few minutes, one group clambers up the stone pier and begins their way across. Some swing hand over hand most of the way, others sling their legs over to shimmy across. There’s no time for rest. Every second is crucial.

Christian is the first in our group to make the climb. He moves nimbly, his limbs wiry but strong. Frozen, Adam stares up at him.

I grip his shoulder. “Go on. I’m right behind you.”

He nods, shoves his toe in a foothold and reaches up. I follow him, whispering encouragement whenever he stalls. Behind me, Sir Henry grunts with the strain of heaving his old bones upward. At the top of the pier, I latch on to the rope, dangling awhile as I talk myself into it.

If I let go now, there’s sand below me, maybe only fifteen feet down. But then Sir Henry swears as a stone crumbles and his foot slips. He flails a hand out, grabbing the rope from which I hang for support. I bob with the impact, my pack shifting to my side, then quickly recover and grapple for the next handhold. Hand over hand, I work my way across, my palms stinging even through leather gloves.

By the time we reach the third pier, my fingers are cramping and my shoulders burning. I cling to the stones. The ledge on which I stand is barely deep enough for my toes and the balls of my feet. My heels hang over the edge. Far below, dark water laps at the base of the pier. I glance at the far bank. Men are already scaling the hill and the first few have reached the lower wall of the town. I look back to where we started, then ahead to the opposite bank. Not even halfway.

Adam is already twenty feet ahead of me.

“Go, go,” my father urges impatiently.

I suppose this would be a bad time to tell him I’ve reconsidered, that I don’t belong here, that I’m more at home with textbooks and microscope slides and rows of students scribbling down my every word. I pull in a breath and inch my way around to the next rope. The gap between Adam and me widens. I grab the rope with two hands and pull myself along. This time, my father stays close.

“For Berwick, son,” he says, “and Scotland.”

For Berwick and Scotland. Berwick and Scotland
, I chant to myself over and over, my grip growing stronger. Adam waits at the next pier for me. He extends a hand, beckoning. Only a few feet to go now. Distant, scattered voices shatter the silence of the night, but I shut them out, focusing on Adam’s hand.

And then ... his hand isn’t there anymore. His body jerks away and buckles backward, away from the pier, then plummets. I catch the barest flash of an arrow shaft protruding from his chest before the river swallows him whole.

Propelled by fear, I reach above my head and grip a broken timber to pull myself up into the framework.

“Hold tight, Roslin!” my father yells as he begins toward me.

I look into his eyes and recognize the fear there — the fear that we both might not make it through this day.

A force smacks against my right shoulder. At first I feel nothing, then a bolt of pain tears through me. I sense my fingers losing sensation, slipping. Far below, the river gurgles. I lose my grip ... and fall.

“Nooo!!!” my father screams.

His voice fades with the rush of air around me. Cold blasts my body. Water rushes into my nose and mouth.

No air, no air. Weight pressing all around me. My ribs tightening.

Darkness, everywhere.

LONG, LONG AGO

Berwick, Scotland — 1333

M
oment by moment, like rousing from a long sleep, my senses return. The flap of wings begins as a rustle, then rises to a crashing din. Wind beats against my wet clothes. Only the warmth of the sun’s rays keeps the chill at bay. Grains of sand coat my tongue, their grit grinding between my clamped teeth. I try to spit them out, but gag instead. A cough wracks my lungs so hard I retch.

Then, a broad hand pushes at my ribs, forcing me onto my back. “I told you I would be behind you.”

I open my eyes and blink at the brightness. The first light of dawn shimmers over rippling waves. Water laps soothingly at my legs.

My father kneels over me, concern weighing his features. Beads of water drip from his hairline. “Bloody English archers.”

“My arm,” I croak. “I can’t ... feel ...”

In the distance, a city rises above the shoreline: Berwick. How had we gotten so far from it? I struggle with the question, my mind cluttered with cobwebs. I close my eyes, thinking hard, remembering.

‘Clumsy jackass. I told you to hold on.’

Slowly, it comes back to me: we were trying to relieve the town, get supplies to them, crossing the underside of the bridge, when —

“You’re going to live.” My father grips my left arm and shakes me. There’s blood on his hands, yet I see no wounds on him. “You’re going to live, damn it. D’you hear me, Roslin?”

I do, but why does he care whether I live or die? And since when did I start thinking of this man as my father?

The sea wind bellows in my ears and snatches the warmth from my body. I gulp for air, but can only manage a small breath.

My father’s gruff voice comes to me as if from the end of a very long tunnel. His words are too muffled to make out. I turn my head toward him. That’s when I see the feathered shaft sticking out of my shoulder.

––––––––

T
he next thing I’m aware of is that I’m in a tent. Duncan is asleep sitting next to me, his arms crossed, his beard touching his chest. His lips flutter as he snores.

“Where am I?” I say. It takes all my strength just to summon those few words.

Twitching awake, he slaps his cheeks, then smiles. “Back at camp.”

“Did they get the supplies into the town?”

“They did.” His shoulders slump forward. “Those ahead of us on the bridge all made it across. Some of the men were even able to enter the town. It seems the archer who killed Adam and wounded you was only a sentry. But it didn’t take long for others to arrive. Keith ordered everyone back across. Nearly twenty died and as many were wounded.”

Every breath I inhale is painful. I glance at my shoulder. Thankfully, I was unconscious when they extracted the arrow. The point had burrowed deep within my flesh, shredding muscle and sinew before hitting bone. The arrowhead had been an armor-piercing pile, its metal tip barely wider than the shaft, rather than a barbed broad head. A smelly poultice had been applied and dressing packed over it, but around the edges of the rags used to soak up the blood, my skin is red and inflamed.

“It’s so damn hot in here.” Sweat saturates my clothes. I attempt to sit up so I can push back the blankets and cool off, but the moment I lift my head a rush of dizziness sweeps over me. I move my good arm to grab at the blanket’s edge, but even that effort drains me.

Despite my struggles, Duncan tugs the blanket tighter. “You’ve had a fever. Been asleep for over two days.”

“How bad is it?”

“If you can fight off the infection, you’ll pull through. No telling how well you’ll be able to use that arm, but at least you have another one.”

He fakes a grin of encouragement, but I’m not entirely sold on his optimism. This is the first time in quite awhile that I wished myself back in the twenty-first century. Treating and closing up a wound like this would be standard emergency room procedure. A day or two in the hospital for observation and then home with a generous dose of painkillers. Here, I’m relegated to leeches and someone trying to interpret the color of my urine.

“The siege?” I mumble. “Did they lift the siege?”

His lip curls. “The bastard said since we didn’t get our two hundred men
inside
Berwick, it didn’t constitute a proper relief. Lord Archibald argued the point, but to no avail. When King Edward still refused to break the siege, Archibald threatened to fly south and wreak havoc on the north of England.” He leans in close, his voice low. “We found out Queen Philippa is at Bamburgh.”

“How far is that?”

“Twenty miles, perhaps. But Bamburgh is reputed to be impregnable. It sits on a rock at the sea’s edge. Its towers part the clouds. Archibald hasn’t the machinery to take it. He knows that.”

“He hasn’t the time for a proper siege, either,” I add.

“Aye, but he went anyway, hoping Edward would chase him.” Scoffing, he stares down at empty hands. When he finally speaks again, his voice is husky with grief. “The moment Archibald was out of sight, Edward began building gallows in plain sight of the town’s walls.”

“They’re going to hang the hostages, aren’t they?”

“They’ve already begun. Thomas Seton, Sir Alexander’s son, was the first.”

A pit of sorrow opens up inside my chest. I hadn’t known Thomas Seton or his father, but these men had become like brothers to me. “So what now?”

Shrugging, he pours me a cup of ale. “More negotiations, I reckon. Nothing but empty talk. In the end, we either hand over Berwick — or fight to keep it. We’ll know soon enough.”

I want to ask him more, but the outcome is already written. The details seem too insignificant to share. As soon as Archibald returns, I’ll insist on talking to him, convince him to surrender the town, so he can live to fight another day. But I know him well enough by now to realize that isn’t going to be easy to do. Probably impossible. What weight does my word carry?

Even knowing what will happen, I can’t change anything. Yet why do I keep trying?

A heavy silence settles between us as I empty my cup. I don’t have the energy left to ask anything else. I’m hungry and thirsty, but more than that I need to rest. I close my eyes and let the drink infuse my bloodstream, washing away my worries.

––––––––

A
good night’s rest has left me feeling slightly more human. My fever has broken, although my shoulder still throbs. I can use my right hand now, but I still can’t lift my arm more than halfway.

“Seton has signed a truce with King Edward.” My father hands me a bowl of stew as I sit up. “The agreement expires at sunrise on the 20
^th
.”

I dip a finger in the steamy liquid. It’s warm, but not scalding. I sip at the broth. It tastes of beef, but I force myself to swallow anyway. If I want to regain my strength, I have to eat something and fresh fruits and vegetables are in very limited supply here. “What is today?”

I have to ask. I’ve lost track. Without a regular schedule, the days blur together. I can’t tell what day of the week it is, let alone know the date, especially after losing two whole days slipping in and out of consciousness.

“Today is the 15
^th
of July.” He plops down on the stool next to me. Grimacing, he kneads at his knees with gnarled fingers.

One side of the tent has been left open and while the breeze is welcome, the afternoon air is still hot — nothing near as torrid as a July day in the Midwest, but today is abnormally oppressive for summer in Scotland.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“For what?”

“Saving me.” I set the bowl down. It seems a useless gesture that Henry saved me, given that I’m going to die soon anyway. I suppose it’s the thought that counts. “I know we’ve had our differences, but —”

“The day you were born, your mother died. She was twenty years younger than me and yet ...” He hangs his head, his words coming haltingly, as if he has to force every syllable out. It’s not the Henry I know — the hardened warrior who regards sentiment as a weakness. “She had just enough energy to push you out. By the time you drew your first breath, she had taken her last. I loved her more than life, more than anything.”