The Game of Kings (15 page)

The shadow of a smile crossed Lymond’s face. He waited as the arms dropped, and spoke into sullen silence.

“At dusk tomorrow night a supply train of wagons is due to leave Roxburgh Castle for Hume. Among other things, it will contain the month’s supply of beer for Lord Grey and the Hume garrison—”

The bang of relief and approval hit the ruined roof and brought mouldering plaster down on their regardless heads. An anonymous voice skirling through the din gave it its leitmotif. “Now you’re talking!” it shrieked. “Now you’re bloody well talking!”

Scott thought, “Don’t they realize they’re sixty to one?” And answered himself wryly. “He’s the Golden Goose. They’ll never touch him.”

He said to Mat, “Your credit.”

Turkey shook his head. “Listen. He’s had it planned for days.” He sighed. “Man, man: he can play them like a chanter.”

But Scott was listening to the Master’s voice explaining the forthcoming raid; giving times, places and numbers, and making it crystal clear that anyone attempting to force Hume Castle itself had no future whatever.

Rightly or wrongly, Will Scott called that an overstatement.

To ride cross-country from Eskdale to Teviotdale is good for the liver; to do it without being seen healthier still.

The forty-five men who passed over the hills next day with Lymond and Will Scott were fortified, within and without, and sang impolite songs in discreet harmony, syncopated by beer and rough ground.

They reached the Tweed at dusk, crossed between Dryburgh and Roxburgh, and had the last of the beer and some ham and biscuits apiece, after leaving a couple of men to the north of Roxburgh. Then they lit a very small fire and settled down to a ferocious night at the dice.

The outposts came up just after midnight.

Lymond received them from a comfortable hollow in a stone outcrop, where he played a solitary game of his own with a worn pack of cards.

“They’re coming, Master!” Excited in spite of himself, the Lang Cleg was peching. “They left Roxburgh an hour back, coming the way you said. Thirty horse and five drivers; three carts and two heavy wains with oxen pulling.”

“Oxen!” Lymond looked up for the first time from his game.

The Cleg nodded. “They took them on at Roxburgh and left some of their horses. It’ll be the ordnance carts. They’re ower heavy, and the castle’s hard up for horses.”

Lymond said, dealing again, “Thirty horses. How many mares?”

“Ten geldings and twenty mares, fairly fresh. They must have come up from Berwick yesterday and rested all evening.”

“All right.” Lymond gathered up the cards and stood up.

“Scott! Matthew! They’re taking the route we thought and should be among the thorn scrub before the moon rises.”

He recapitulated briefly. Scott watched sardonically. (“The great leader in action.”)

“We aim to disable, not to kill. We take important hostages, if any, and you, Matthew, select the beer and any other goods we need. Then we split: Scott takes as many men as he needs, parcels the rest of the prisoners, loads them into a cart with any goods we don’t want, and drives them as near Melrose as he can get, joining us thereafter. Understood?”

Mat, who hadn’t heard of the latest refinement, grinned. “Melrose! Daddy Buccleuch’ll be pleased!”

Scott waited for the sour smile. It duly appeared. “Payment for goods received, let’s say. Scott concurs, don’t you? All right. Cry boot and saddle, my dears, and we’re off.”

He turned the impervious gaze on the company. “To horse, you drouthy maggots. Are you deaf?”

*  *  *

By the time the maggots were duly embedded, one mile south of Hume Castle, the English supply train was still toiling north and everybody in it was sick to death of the oxen.

The beasts straddled the causeway, two to a wainload, surging unprogressively through the night with poached and indolent eye. Behind them groaned the carts, tamped with humped canvas, and behind that, more carts, horse-drawn. The mounted escort, fidgetting on all sides, was in a foul temper and raw-alert.

The night, moonless and unsympathetic, stretched around them, and visibility at thirty yards granted them a view of a quantity of stunted thorns.

The bullocks puffed gently, and a mare snickered. She was answered by one of the other horses.

Above the wheel-rumbling, someone cursed. “Hold her nose! We don’t want the whole God-damn percussion band.” But as he said it, one of the cart horses threw back its head and presented the night with a splitting neigh.

“Wait a minute!” They listened; while the speaker laid hands on the ox harness and the procession rolled to a halt.

There was silence—broken by a dim beat far out in the night. Then the first tap was begetting others and the pattern was recognizable. Horses, in a solid body, were sweeping in on them from the moor.

A crackle of orders arose; hurried movements and sudden, heavy breathing: bows, pikes and lances readied, they made for the shelter of the carts. They barely got there before, out of the night, dim forms came flying, heaving, nudging, bouncing and kicking in a cacophony of horse language. Lost in the flailing morass, with their own mounts rearing and threshing, the supply men had a confused impression of barrel ribs, rolling eyes and merciful, saddleless backs.

“Blood an’ bones!” They were hoarse with anger and relief. “It’s a damned great herd of wild ponies. Get away with you! Off! Off!” And they rose out of shelter, cursing and whipcracking at the steaming bare backs and flying manes. Hoofs sparked on the stones; horses neighed, nosed, bumped and reared.

The hill pony is a stout and independent citizen: bold, uncatchable, inquisitive and gregarious. The herd went seriously to work, exploring all these and fresh talents. The mares were going silly and even the oxen were beginning to plunge.

“Hell an’ thunder!” said someone, taking a moment’s breathing space to have a good look. “That’s funny!”

“What the hell’s funny about it?” snapped someone else, bucketting past with heels flapping like windmills.

“Well, for instance,” said the first speaker, gasping, “every one of these brutes is a stallion.”

But nobody heeded him, for just then the leading wain rolled in bovine panic off the road and sank two wheels up to the axle in mud.

They were attempting to drag it out, to calm the bullocks, to chase off the ponies and to control their mounts when Lymond’s men descended like moths; and even then they lost seconds in realizing that these horses had riders. The infiltration was neat and unspectacular, involving close-quarter cudgel work and little injury: there were simply fewer and fewer vertical English and finally none at all. It took them longer to round up the ponies again than it had taken to capture the train.

It was a first-class haul. Matthew supervising, flour, biscuits, oats, meat, and leather powder bags with serpentine and corn powder were unloaded and put up in creels ready strapped to their own horses. One cart with hackbuts, bills, bows and arrow sheaves was unstrapped from the oxen and harnessed to a team of ponies. The rest of the ponies, without exception, carried beer.

A wooden box, heavily padlocked, yielded to maltreatment and proved, satisfyingly, to hold the end of the month’s wages. It was tied to Matthew’s saddlebow.

Lymond watched, moving everywhere. To Scott, roping prostrate bodies together, he intoned: “Sawest not you my oxen, you little, pretty boy? With hemp, with howe, with hemp.… Any familiar faces?—No, of course: you wouldn’t know.”

He looked over the silent row of gagged figures. “Unfortunate. A Spanish captain, and not worth his own weight in olive stones. Take ’em all to Melrose, and the rest of the wagons too. How many do you want for escort?”

Scott said quickly, “I have ten men: that’ll do.”

“All right, Barbarossa. Allez-vous-en, allez, allez. You’ve a job to do before dawn.”

Scott nodded earnestly, and rode back to load up the leading cart with his prisoners.

*  *  *

The English lookout at Hume Castle, slumped in the empty fire pan on the roof, was doing sums gloomily in his head. Below, night hid
the great sweep of the Tweed valley and the Merse. Slabbed with fortifications, packed with soldiers, and stuck on a precipice with a six-foot curtain, the place was as safe as Durham Cathedral … and he was bored.

If the old man sent up the pay from Berwick, he was due two pounds for the month. Then he owed twelve shillings for food. That left …

He groaned, working it out. It was a relief when he heard the wagons approaching, and caught glimpses of activity at the gatehouse, and familiar riding dress. He made for the bell rope. “Supply train from Berwick, ho! There’s the beer, Davie-boy!” sang the lookout.

Long before the portcullis was down, word had gone from the fire pan to the allure, and the allure to the keep, where sat Sir William Grey, thirteenth Baron Grey of Wilton, Field-marshal and Captain-general of the horse, Governor of Berwick, Warden of the East Marches and General of Northern Parts on behalf of His Majesty King Edward VI of England.

Few commanders enjoy visiting outposts in enemy country: the risks of making a fool of oneself are relative to the distance from base.

Through an unlucky incident at Pinkie, Lord Grey was, as it happened, in a fair way toward doing this in any case for a little, whether he liked it or not. Sitting at his temporary desk, sleek, pink and picturesque, hair and beard a silver perfection above splendid riding clothes, he was in as petulant a mood as a gentleman of quality can be.

“I with to God,” said his lordship bitterly to his secretary, “I with to God I wath thtuck with the Crewth again. Even Boulogne and that damn rhymthter Thurrey wath plain thailing to
thith.”

Mr. Myles rigidly agreed.

Lord Grey gave him a sharp look; then ruffled impatiently through the papers before him. He picked one out, and slapped it down again with the same gesture.

“Fifteen labourerth dithappeared during the work at Roxthburgh: four Thpanith bombardierth and twelve pikemen climbed the wallth and gone home. If I could, I’d do it mythelf. No beer: not enough food. How can I thtaff garrithonth without gold and thupplieth? And how do they think they can get thupplieth to uth when winter thetth in? Hell and perdithion!” said Lord Grey, goaded to fury by the unfair stings of Fortune. “Ith there no word in the Englith language wanting an Eth?”

Mr. Myles was saved by the entrance of Dudley, regular captain of the garrison, bringing the leader of the Berwick supply train to report.

“Mr. Taylor, my lord,” said Dudley; and stood back.

Mr. Taylor, a personable young man with red hair, was coolly received. “Taylor? I was ekthpecting one of my men from Berwick.”

Taylor, in the more normal person of Will Scott, had anticipated this question. He said smartly, “I’ve just arrived at Berwick, sir. I had some of your men with me, but was asked to leave the more experienced ones at Roxburgh.”

“I thee,” said Grey noncommittally. “Well, what have you brought with you?”

He read the lists proffered without comment; handed them to Dudley with an air of private martyrdom, and turned again to Scott. “Your men being looked after?”

“Yes, my lord.” He wasn’t afraid of that. They all wore clothes stripped off the real English, and the lists were authentic. “Ten men below, sir: I put two or three to guard the wagons until ordered to unload. Beer, my lord,” he added in explanation.

“Good. Any meth—word from London?”

Scott, standing at the door, said still briskly, “One verbal message for yourself, sir, from his Grace. I was to deliver it for your ear only.”

Surprise registered briefly on all three faces, then the secretary, laying his papers deferentially on the edge of the desk, caught Grey’s eye and left the room. Dudley raised an eyebrow and stayed.

Scott said, “I’m sorry, sir: my orders are …”

Grey said, “Thir Edward remainth,” because to his mind a general should appear to keep no secrets from a cousin of the Earl of Warwick. He hoped the boy had some discretion.

Scott, fulminating, wished his lordship had less.

At this moment of impasse the window fell in.

A second later, a crack like the Eildons parting fell on their ears, and a bouquet of flame bellied up from the courtyard.

Grey strode to the window and Dudley had begun to follow when, under cover of chain detonation and shouting outside, Will Scott leaped. Dudley, overcome before he realized it, gave a muffled groan and rolled over, stunned by an efficient blow on the prominent jaw.

The explosion had taken place in the middle of the newly arrived wagon train. The carts had already disappeared in smoke, and the nearest thatches were blazing merrily. Grey, staring out, saw the yard striped with shadows running haphazard about the well and courtyard.
Then Woodward, Dudley’s lieutenant, appeared below, and some sort of order began to materialize.

Grey opened his mouth and turned, missing in that instant a descending stick, and found himself promptly pinned from behind, with an arm across his mouth.

He bit, fruitlessly and painfully. He kicked, with better results; then, summoning his considerable reserves, embarked on a wrestling trick which most mercenaries would have recognized, but Scott did not. The boy held the older man as long as he was physically able, and then fell back for the fatal instant that was necessary for his lordship to shout, “Help! Guard!
Athathinth!”
having little time to choose his words; and that was long enough for the guard outside to burst in, and for Dudley to erupt onto his feet.

In the brief and damaging interval which followed, the fighting was less preventative than justly punitive. By the time the interloper had been knocked to, on, and across the floor, the room was packed with avidly assisting soldiery, and the affair had taken on the look of a riot.

Dudley, at a sign from Grey, cleared them all out and gave orders to lock up all the men who were with Taylor. Two pikemen were set against the door, and then Dudley, after a brief inquiry below, joined his lordship in studying his bedraggled captive.