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“Dead. All are dead.” The man gestured to their ruined surroundings as though the devastation were not perfectly obvious. “Can ye nae see? Burned. Destroyed. All are gone.”
“I said, where are they? Show me.” He lowered his voice, his tone little more than a growl.
“Gone. I told you—”
“He took them? As hostages? Captives?” A glimmer of hope flared. Where there was life…
The man shook his head. “No hostages, no prisoners. They slaughtered all who were here, everyone they could find… dead.”
Blair groaned, struggling to comprehend such senseless destruction. It was obvious that Ingram had not come here solely to rob and to plunder. His intent was seemingly not to take the keep for his own since he had departed almost as quickly as he had arrived, having quashed all resistance. He could have breached the castle walls and taken anything of worth, yet still left Mortain standing and its residents alive. There was no need for this.
“The bodies? Where…”
“There, in the chapel. It was stone, so would nae burn.” The man pointed to the small single-storey structure in the corner of the bailey. “All the dead are there, at least, those that could be found.”
Blair was already striding in the direction of the tiny church, Aiden at his heels. He stepped through the doorway and immediately gagged. No stranger to the battlefield, Blair had encountered death before, but not usually on this scale. And not encompassing women and children as well as soldiers.
Ingram’s violence had been indiscriminate. The stench of death permeated every nook and cranny, and the entire floor was covered with bodies, not all of them even intact.
Blair stepped forward, cautious, unwilling to step on any of the bodies yet finding no unoccupied space to put his feet. He picked his way through, wincing on those occasions he felt a lump beneath his boot. He resolved to see every single one of these poor souls laid decently to rest before he departed in search of the bastard who did this.
He reached the altar and it was there he found them. His family. The man he thought of as a brother, Edmund of Mortain, had died of a sword wound, the blade driven under his armour and into his heart. He must have been already down when the death blow was struck. And beside him, her deep chestnut curls half-concealing the destruction wrought to her once-beautiful face, he discovered his sister. He could see at a glance that Joan had been hit on the side of the head by a blow from a mace; her devastating injuries would have been instantly fatal, but he drew little comfort from that. She was a woman, heavily pregnant at that. They had no need, none at all…
Blair knelt beside her and took her cold hand between both of his. He kissed the chilled skin, touched his lips to each finger in turn before lifting his gaze once more to her face.
“I will avenge ye, sister. I will make him and his pay for what has been done here. I swear it, on your life and that of the child ye should have borne. Ingram will regret this day’s bloody work.”
* * *
Forty-eight hours later Blair leaned on the spade he had used to help dig graves. He and his men had worked tirelessly to ensure that the victims of Ingram’s bloodlust had at least the benefit of a decent, Christian interment. He had despatched troops to secure the services of a priest from the nearby abbey at Jedburgh and the man had intoned the necessary blessings over each burial. Blair hoped this would suffice to ensure the salvation of these poor souls, but for himself he required something more tangible in the way of vengeance.
He caught the eye of Aiden who toiled a few yards from him and tipped his chin to indicate he wanted to talk. The two men strode to the edge of the meadow and surveyed the scene before them. In all, they had dug sixty-seven graves, though some held more than one occupant. Where the survivors of the massacre were able to identify families, these had been buried together. The total number of dead was close to ninety, and might yet rise further.
The members of the laird’s household—Edmund, Joan, and Edmund’s elderly mother who had perished many years earlier, were buried in a vault beneath the chapel where the bodies had been found. Blair had passed much of that night on his knees before the tomb, promising vengeance for the senseless destruction of so many precious lives.
“We’ll leave a handful of men to rebuild the gates and walls and do what they might to secure the keep. I have already offered the survivors sanctuary at Duncleit, though the journey there will be arduous.”
“I believe most will opt to remain here, Laird.”
“Aye, me too. But I had to offer. Edmund had no brothers or other male cousins, and with the death of his unborn child I am his heir so they are my responsibility now. I will need to appoint an agent to manage this keep until a better arrangement might be found, unless James decrees otherwise.”
“The king has concerns of his own. He is too busy seeking to subdue the Livingstons and Black Douglases to bother about the fate of a borders fortress.”
“Then he is a fool. Mortain occupies a strategic location and must be defended. First, however…”
“Ingram.” Aiden met his laird’s stony gaze.
“Aye, Ingram. He will pay for this carnage with his life.”
“We go to Berwick, then?”
“We do. Round up the men who will accompany us. We leave within the hour.”
* * *
The journey to the Ingram stronghold at Etal, a village to the west of Berwick, took them the best part of two days. Blair saw no cause for haste; Ingram would have no reason to expect pursuit so quickly since he had slain all who might have given chase. Even if Ingram had anticipated aid coming to Mortain from further north, the troop from Duncleit had made fast time and had not lingered long at the ruined keep, despite his men’s fatigue. All were eager to settle this bloody business as quickly as might be achieved, but Ingram was not to know that. Let the bastard enjoy the peace of his own hearth for an extra day or two, it made no difference to Blair. He would exact retribution for that vile day’s work soon enough.
He and Aiden surveyed the quiet scene from vantage points atop their destriers. The fortress in the valley below appeared quiet, just a few wisps of smoke from the ovens and the scurrying of peasants in the village itself betraying the day-to-day activity of the small, isolated community. Of the lord himself there was no visible sign, but that meant nothing. He would be inside, languishing in his hall, no doubt exchanging stories with his men at arms extolling their victory at Mortain.
