The Red Lion

Chapter Two

          In the coming months, the sun would hide from view of the earth. Great gray and silver clouds would shadow Scotland in a melancholic haze. Most of the trees near Bayloroch had already shed their leaves and stood in proud nakedness. The snow had not yet fallen; it was yet a few weeks off.

The village was situated north of the estate by just a few miles. An even greater distance to the south-east lied the ever-contested Scottish-English border. The dirt roads swayed left and right, dodging the farmers' fields. Alefric galloped beneath me, riding quickly back to the estate. In the distance I could see the stone tower jutting out from the top of the great hall with the proud Saint Andrew's Cross flying in the breeze.

I arrived back at the entrance to Bayloroch and dismounted, leading Aelfric back to the stables. The pathway that the stables were on continued  southward and became a road that intersected the main southern highway. There was nobody around me, but I could hear the sound of hoofbeats coming from the south road that led into the woods. Unmistakably, there was a rider coming hard north.

The rider emerged from the woods and slowed his pace as he approached me. He bore no pennant or symbol of allegiance to any faction. I gripped the wood and leather handle of the steel dirk I had hidden under my cloak. While still a distance away, he called to me "Whose land is this?", his hands still firmly gripping his mount's reins. His accent was Scottish.

"The land belongs to King Alexander; the estate belongs to me, Lord Murtaugh," I called back to him, my hand not leaving my weapon.

The rider breathed a visible sigh of relief and promptly dismounted, then led his horse closer to me.

"I am a scout serving under Lord Caraid of Edinburgh. Our forces were moving southward to set up winter fortifications when we were ambushed by English troops. Our men regrouped and are currently marching northward on this road. They will be here soon. We need a place to rest and tend to the wounded."

I paused a moment. "Ride back and tell your lord to send his men here. We'll do what we can, but don't expect much."

"Thank ye, my lord," he quickly said, then he mounted and sped back into the woods.

I was no stranger to quartering troops. My father had always done it and so had I once or twice. I remember being a young lad, fetching water buckets and bandages for the injured men. Back then I winced and shied away from every broken bone and sliced skin and tried never to enter the great hall when father was tending to the wounded. Since then I had built up a tolerance to it.

I rushed back into the great hall, flinging the doors open wide and calling out "All hands to the great hall now! We've Scottish boys en route!" Servants and kitchen maids began to crowd the hall, lining up tables and spreading out ground cloths, readying buckets and bandages. Finan appeared from the corridor and spoke to me:

"Another detachment?" he asked.

I nodded." This one the victim of an ambush. Supervise the servants, will you? I need to meet with the Lord Caraid when he arrives.

"Lord Caraid?" he asked with surprise. "'The Wolf of Edinburgh?'"

I raised an eyebrow.

"The Lord Caraid has had stories told across the country of his ruthlessness and dread. He takes no prisoners and whips his troops into submission when they'll nae march."

I paused a few moments, thinking. "Take care of the boys when they come to the hall," I finally said. "I'll handle Caraid."

"Aye, lord," Finan said with a nod as I turned away. From the great hall I hustled into the side corridor and up the staircase leading to the second floor. At the end of the hall I opened the door of the room I share with my wife. It was oddly cold; the stone fireplace no longer blazed with light or heat and only sat in ashen dullness.