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One
The Year of Our Lord’s Grace 1174
Scotland’s Border
Young knight MacLaren stood with steady feet upon the narrow parapet and looked down into the inner bailey, surveying the destruction and devastation below. Ian, the guardsman ever by the youth’s side, had the same grim expression as his charge.
The constant thunder of a battering ram slamming upon the solid oak door echoed harshly throughout the keep. Afore long, the wooden portal would give way, and with its demolition, all hope would surely depart from the occupants who had fled inside to find safe haven. Too soon, the enemy would be within, causing more lives to be lost in the castle’s defense. The siege had been bloody, lasting more than two fortnights, and, in truth, ’twas surprising the battle endured as long as it had, given the small number of knights available to defend the castle walls.
For nigh unto sixty years, Berwyck Castle had known peace over its land while governed by the last remaining descendants of the Scottish clan MacLaren. The castle and its people, however, had grown accustomed to constant upheaval, being between two kings struggling for power and control over the region. Situated on a cliff high above the raging sea, the castle towered over a prime port for transporting goods into the interior of the country, both north and south. Its location, bordering Scotland and England, had been the cause of many a battle over the centuries, and the fortress had changed liege lords more often than most could remember. With the arrival of the enemy, and the breaching of the curtain wall, ’twas but a matter of time afore England would once again call this castle its own in the name of their king.
Although young in years and slight of frame, the fledgling knight had fought valiantly and bravely, never giving quarter, even whilst the enemy relentlessly pressed forward in determination to win the day. Only at the command of the castle’s laird and chieftain of the clan did the knight order the garrison to fall back into the keep to protect the family within. Moments earlier, all had watched in horror as a sword laid low their liege and his eldest son, though they continued to pray that perchance the leaders had been spared and yet lived.
Blood, of those whom the young MacLaren’s loyal garrison had slain, covered their armor, and the stench assaulted their senses. The cries of the wounded and dying were but a soft whisper on the wind and had all but quieted. MacLaren knew all of Berwyck’s inhabitants were now focused on the newest threat to come, as the castle’s last defense was about to fall. The distinct sound of splintering wood rang out into the chilled air. The warriors atop the battlement grimaced at the forecast of what their future held.
“Ach, ’twill not last much longer now,” Ian predicted.
“Aye Ian, our fate it seems has been sealed,” the young knight said, retrieving the sword that had been carefully laid up against the stone wall. “We shall soon be held accountable for those lives we have taken this day.”
“I do not relish swearing fealty to some English pig,” Ian cursed loudly, “especially as our laird and the dead of our fellow clansmen lay scattered on these cold grounds, awaiting a decent burial.”
The young knight flinched at the mention of their lord.
Ian mumbled his apologies for his loose tongue.
“My sire and brother died in battle . . . in truth they would have had it no other way,” was all young MacLaren said.
“We know not if they have as yet perished,” Ian said gravely. “They could still be out there and in need of our healer.”
“Let us pray ’tis so,” the knight whispered with a slight catch to the words spoken. “I must also offer my thanks, whilst I am able, for guarding my back. I do not know if I would be standing afore you now without your unwavering aid.”
Ian gave the knight a short bow of respect afore answering. “’Twas my honor, duty, and oath to your father that I should always do so, as you very well know. I, and the rest of your garrison, will endure to guard you ’til our last breaths leave our bodies.”
“You have served me well these past years, not only as captain of my guard, but also as my friend.”
“I pray I will be allowed to continue to do so. But, perchance, ’twould be best if you changed your garments,” Ian suggested.
A heavy sigh came from his young charge.
“Nay . . . I see not how ’twill serve my purpose, but might only worsen my plight given what I see entering the bailey.” The knight nodded with a shiver of fear in the direction of the barbican gate with its ruined portcullis.
“Mayhap, ’tis still to our best interest. ’Twould be wise to change A−” Ian began, but clamped his mouth shut as the knight held up a gloved hand.
“Spare me your council, Ian. Have you ever known me to follow meekly along like some pampered fool?”
“Ach. ’Tis a first time for everything.”
The young knight shrugged. “Not today nor any time in the near future. Besides, ’twill hardly be time, as I believe such an opportunity has now left us.”
The two leaned over the battlement wall to get a closer look at the procession entering their home. The first horse among many clipped clopped its way into the inner bailey. The rider held high a blood red standard stamped with the blackest of dragons, giving evidence to its owner’s identity.
The reputation of the one following his colors preceded him. He was well known throughout the kingdom as the scourge of both England and France. Legend held, he had made a pact with the underworld, allowing him to forever remain invincible in battle. ’Twas said no person or thing ever survived at his clutches, and all who encountered him trembled in his wake.
The youthful knight was no different. ’Twas clear to the young MacLaren as he watched his realms impending doom that all he feared had come to pass. Berwyck Castle and his lands were lost to the Devil’s Dragon who arrived to claim his new lair.
Dristan of Blackmore surveyed the carnage around him with disgust ’til his eyes at last leveled on the soul his gaze had sought, Hugh of Harlow. With the briefest of nods to his guardsmen, they dismounted from their steeds as one.
The twelve men who rode with him had been at his side for years and were loyal beyond what he could have dared hope. They trained and fought together ’til each knew how the other moved without question. Their unity went even to their garments. Dristan along with his men were all dressed in black armor, their mounts and their trappings the same, every shield embossed with the fire breathing dragon bearing his coat of arms. The only bit of color to be seen was from their dark red capes, draped from their shoulders and billowing in the wind like the running of blood, seeping into the ground from the dying.
Dristan’s career had been of one campaign after another for his king, and tournaments throughout the years. The sight of death was one to which he had become accustomed. ’Twas the cost of waging war. But this . . . this . . .
At the raising of his arm, the men who were about to breach the keep’s door with the battering ram stopped their movement, awaiting their lord’s instructions. He motioned to the one he had left in charge, realizing in this moment the mistake he had made by doing so. Hugh of Harlow could be ruthless in nature when he felt superior to others, but generally he followed orders without question. Apparently, in this battle, he had given no thought to the directives given him, and instead, had done as he saw fit in bringing down the barbican gate and portcullis.
“My lord,” Hugh said with a slight bow.
Dristan glared in silence at the man afore him, who began to sweat under his commander’s close scrutiny. In the blink of an eye, Dristan’s fist slammed forward and sent Hugh flying through the air to land upon his back on the ground.
The peasants who had fled to the castle for shelter fell to their knees in terror and crossed themselves in alarm. Dristan’s rage showed more than any words he might utter, and those who knew him not feared for their very lives, as they watched him stalk to the man now beneath his feet.
“You worthless pile of dung!” Dristan bellowed. “Did you give no thought to who will till my fields and tend my castle whilst you carelessly slaughtered all in your path?”
“I did as you commanded my lord and took the grounds in the only way I knew,” Hugh said defiantly, as he gained courage with his words. “What is the price of the lives of a few peasants, as long as I have won this victory in your honor?”
“Fool that you are! What triumph have you scored me? Have you not heard my words, or do you plan to attend the soil yourself?” Dristan yelled at his vassal. “What of their lord, his knights, his family? Did you not think perchance they might not still serve me as well, or did you plan to slay them too? You annihilate all in your path with no thought and leave but angry, wounded men, who would just as soon put a knife in my back now than aid me with defending my lands!”
Hugh picked himself up, dusting the dirt from his backside, and stood afore Dristan with a look of contempt on his features. “If you need someone to work the ground, mayhap you could use that one,” he said, gesturing towards the knight looking down from the battlements. “He slew enough of our men that time in the fields would serve as just penance.”
Dristan looked above to the young lad in question and noticed the tattered remnants of a ribbon that boasted the MacLaren clan’s tartan, waving in the air from his arm. “You forget yourself Hugh, if you think to instruct me on how to deal with those who would serve me,” he said with disdain and, raising his arm, pointed towards the boy. “I have witnessed what that boy has done this day and from what I have seen, he has fought with more honor in his young life and inexperience than I could ever say about the years you have served me. Now get thee from my sight, and take my horse. Mayhap time spent in the stables will improve your ability to follow orders and help you remember, I am your liege lord!”
Hugh grudgingly took the reins of Dristan’s destrier. Thor seemed to have no desire to go anywhere with the man, as he pulled and tugged to no avail. Thor stood his ground with only a shake of his luxurious black mane and a snort directed towards Dristan to voice his displeasure.
Dristan chuckled and patted the stallion’s neck. “Go Thor. All will be well.”
As the horse was finally led to the stables, and several serfs were ordered to do the same with his guardsmen’s mounts, Dristan turned his attention to the pressing matters at hand.
“Riorden,” he called to his captain.
“Aye, my lord?”
“Take a half dozen men inside, lest those within are still prepared to battle. Somehow I think these Scots, too, are weary of watching their kinsmen felled and would like this blood bath to be over.”
“’Twill be done, my liege.”
“And Riorden,” Dristan continued as his captain paused in his stride. “Bring me the young knight. I assume he is their lord’s son, and ’twill be fitting that he should plead his fealty to me afore all others.”
Dristan watched as Riorden and his men breached the last remains of the door. It took but a few choice words spoken to those knights of the old lord left to defend the Great Hall ’til they sheathed their swords in defeat.
Satisfied no further blood would be shed this day, Dristan went about securing his new lands in the name of his king. As was always the case wherever he appeared, adults and children scampered out of his way in fear. Their cries of terror now filled the hall as he entered his new domain. He gave a weary sigh. Sometimes having a fierce reputation could be bothersome indeed, but unfortunately for his peace of mind, ’twas one necessary to maintain.
