The Red Lion

Chapter Eight

          "Keep 'em moving this way, back to the camp! Lord Prodger will want to see them."

The English troops wrestled me and the rest of my party out of the woods and into an English camp set up only what I deemed was a little more than several miles away. Dozens of tents stood in a field fully equipped with a blacksmith, officers' meeting tent, mess tent, and many other amenities common to more organized armies. They had clearly been there for some time, a week at the least.

What I immediately interpreted to be the garrison commander, this "Lord Prodger," was a man seated inside the officers' tent with the flap open. He appeared busy with some correspondence letters as he was intently reading a piece of parchment rolled out on a desk.

My Scottish kinsmen and I were tossed down into a corner of the camp that was largely unoccupied. "Guard them," the English sergeant barked at the other soldiers. "Make sure they don't move. I'm going to ask what the captain wants done with them."

The sergeant departed and the other soldiers stood around us, their hands on the pommels of their swords. Finan and I looked at each other. His face asked the question "What are we to do?" My lack of expression told him that I didn't have the slightest idea.

The boys were obviously the most frightened. They had never seen English troops before, certainly not this many. Each man carried a weapon at his belt. Many others carried spears or billhooks. The perimeter of the camp was guarded by a series of archers with shortbows.

They kept us waiting there for what felt like hours. There was no way to tell how long we sat at the edge of the camp. My belly began to ache from hunger. I could tell the boys began to feel the same. Finan, however, seemed unfazed. He peered off into the camp, trying to observe our surroundings to learn as much as possible, I assumed.

Eventually, the sergeant came back.

"What did the captain say?" one of our captors asked.

"He said he wants us to... get to know these boys a bit better," the sergeant responded with a grin. "Let's hear it then, shall we? What have you got to tell us?"

Nobody said anything. I assumed they thought it was my responsibility to speak, which it largely was. But I was not sure what to tell them. Do I mention Lord Caraid and the garrison at Bayloroch? Do I tell them of the estate at all or do I say that we're just foresters collecting wood?

While I pondered, I almost didn't even notice the Englishman kick one of the boys in the face as if he were trying to break down a door. The English boot collided with his jaw and sent him reeling into the dirt.

"Talk, or I'll break more than his nose!" barked the sergeant.

I clenched my fists bound behind my back and spoke:

"I am Darach Murtaugh, Lord of Bayloroch Estate. These men are my servants. We were in the woods collecting firewood when you came upon us."

The sergeant's face lit up. "A lord, he says he is! God's blood, isn't this a bloody good find! The captain will be very interested to hear this then."

"Hold on, now," one of the other soldiers said. "How do we know he is who he says? This one could be lyin' to make 'imself seem more important so we don't kill him."

Some of the Englishmen nodded to each other in agreement. The sergeant rolled his eyes. He pointed his sword at one of the boys and asked him "Who is he?" referring to me.

He paused a moment, then said, "He's our Lord Murtaugh of Bayloroch."

The sergeant glared at his companions. "How d'ye think the captain will reward us when we tell him we found a Scottish lord?"