Page 1 of King of Storms (Isles/Templars #6)
England, near the Scottish Border, October 1378
R ain pelted down hard in the dark night, making it nearly impossible to see but covering other sounds as the lone Scotsman in soaked breeks, boots, and leather jack-o’-plate moved up behind the third English sentry in the clearing, clouted him on the head hard with a stone, and eased him to the muddy ground just as he had done with the other two.
As the Scot, Sir Giffard MacLennan, moved swiftly to untie the first of the captives, the man said, “Be it really yourself, Captain?”
“Aye, sure,” Giff said. “Who else would it be?”
“There be dunamany more English about, sir, and they ha’ sent for reinforcements from Carlisle,” the other muttered.
“Then we’d best get back to the Storm Lass quickly, so help me set these others free. There were nine of us. Are the others all here?”
“Aye, sir. They willna ha’ taken the Lass , will they?”
“If they did, I’ll hang whoever let them get close enough,” Giff said, helping him up. “Now, be quick. The men still with the ship will be waiting for us.”
The others were soon free, and as the nine men hurried back along the marshy track toward Solway Firth, one said, “How did ye slip free, Captain?”
Giff shrugged. “They hadn’t counted us, and in that thunder-pelt that let them creep up on us, it was only a matter of seizing my moment when it came.”
With audible amusement, the other asked, “What sort of a moment was it?”
“When that great bolt of lightning dazzled everyone and thunder boomed all round us, shaking the very earth. I stepped back then between two bushy shrubs and went to ground. Did anyone other than you lads even miss me?”
“Nay, although some did hope they had caught the king o’ storms.”
Giff chuckled. “We’ll keep mum now lest they have others hidden to watch for us. I’d as lief we not all end up prisoners in Carlisle Castle.”
“Aye, sir, I thought sure we were goners.”
“Nay, you should know I’d not let that happen,” Giff said.
A quarter hour later they reached the rise overlooking the firth, near Bowness village. “Where be the Storm Lass , then?” one of the men asked.
“Where we left it, yonder, but under the shrubbery,” Giff said, pointing as he gave a low whistle and received an answering one from a nearby wood.
On the sound, men emerged from the wood and began flinging away the branches that had covered the fourteen-oared Isles galley.
“We’ll launch her and put out the oars quietly,” Giff said as his men moved into position. “No need for sail. We can easily make Powfoot Bay before the tide turns. Then we’ll find the others at Brydekirk and get dry again at last.”
The Storm Lass was soon in the water, her banner flying high and her oarsmen at their oars. Men from Galloway to Cape Wrath and beyond knew the Lass by her red banner with its single puffy black cloud.
The storm still pelted, blew, and churned waves as if the gods had gone mad, but every man aboard had faith that his captain could tame the wildest sea, just as men of old had said that Saint Columba could.
Before they were halfway across, the winds dropped, and shortly before dawn they reached the Scottish coast of the firth and saw breakfast fires already burning.
The rain had eased at last to a near silent drizzle, and their encampment boasted tents, so Giff could look forward to a nearly dry bed and a few hours’ sleep.
They beached the galley, and ten minutes later, he found Sir Hugo Robison just stepping out of his tent.
“Good morrow to you, Hugo. Didst miss me?”
“Where the devil have you been, Giff?”
“England,” he said. “Thought I’d see what Northumberland has set up to do.”
“And?”
“He has five hundred strong and looks to be moving east to cross the Sark.”
“Then he’s still close, so why did it take you so long to get back here?”
“The bastards captured nine of us.”
“Us? You fell prisoner to Northumberland?”
“Aye, but only for a few minutes. I stepped away when the moment was right, then followed them and fetched my lads back.”
“And you expect what for this feat?” Hugo demanded. “Applause?”
“Sakes, I thought you’d be glad to see us all.”
“If I’m hearing you properly, you risked your life and those of thirty others to have a peek at Northumberland’s encampment. They captured you, and now you want me to tell you that you did a good turn because you were lucky enough to get your lads out of the predicament into which your own actions cast them?”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d credit luck for any of it,” Giff said, “unless ’twas the bad luck of tripping over an English hunting party. Thunder was drowning out their noise whilst the rain was trying to drown us. But then, to have found the right moment and taken it—”
Hugo’s fist slammed into his jaw, knocking him onto his backside and effectively ending his explanation.
As Giff rubbed his aching jaw, Hugo said, “Of all the reckless, mutton-headed things you’ve done, this is the . . . What the devil are you grinning about?”
Still rubbing his jaw, Giff said, “I was just thinking how good it is to be home again. Would it help to know that Northumberland means to meet up with Bewcastle and another five hundred, then to cross Liddel Water at Kershopefoot after luring the Douglas much farther east?”
“Why didn’t you tell me all that straightaway?” Hugo demanded.
“Because you put me right off my tale with your questions, I expect.”
“Well, you can just sit right there to enjoy the rest of what I have to say to you, because if you get up, I’ll put you on your backside again. In the first place . . .”
Giff waited out the storm, admiring—and certainly not for the first time—Hugo’s gift for shredding a man’s character thoroughly and at length without pausing even once to think of the right word.
The blessing was that Hugo would just as efficiently send someone to warn the Earl of Douglas, and thus they would spoil yet another English attempt to make nuisances of themselves in Scotland.