Medieval Ever After (20 page)

The men-at-arms used their helms to scoop white powder into the sacks. Taking a sack for each man, they dashed from the armory to the walls and began laying a thick, white line along the top of the wall. When all of the men were gone, including Lane, Ian and Alan, Stephen took the leather pouches that had contained the saltpeter and filled them with the remaining mixture. There were five in all.

He had to kill three Scots in order to move to the center of the gatehouse to start the chain reaction that would literally set fire to the wall of Berwick. He was counting on the hot, rapid fire caused by the quicklime mixture to chase off the invaders. The fighting was worse than before and he knew there was no time to waste. Taking all five pouches, he lit them one after the other with a flint and stone.

The pouches flared into a wild, brilliantly blinding white light. Stephen threw the pouches on the Scots at the gate below, watching them explode and spread fire over several men at once. Soon, there were a few dozen men below that were on fire and their screams of pain filled the night air. What was worse, however, was when their friends tried to put the fire out with water. It would make the fire burn hotter and brighter. It was a horrifying predicament as the smell of burnt flesh began to drift upon the night breeze.

But Stephen wasted no time in viewing his handiwork. He sparked the flint and stone and lit the nearest streak of white powder, watching it flare brilliantly and burn swiftly down the length of the wall. On and on it would go, lighting the next trail of white powder, until it reached the wall facing the river. There was a huge flare as it picked up another row of white powder and then continued along the wall, to the south side of the castle, and continued onward. Stephen and most of his men watched with bated breath as the fire eventually encircled the entire castle.

The Scots on ladders were repelled by the flame. It lit their tartans on fire, a blaze that only grew worse when water was doused upon it. Men began jumping from the ladders and the ladders themselves went up in flame. It quickly became a retreat of chaos. Stephen stood by, watching the complete change in the tides, as Lane, Ian and Alan finally rejoined him.

“Brilliant, my lord,” Ian said with satisfaction. “Your fire has worked magic.”

Stephen grunted. “Perhaps it will give them pause should they think to charge the castle again,” he tore his eyes away from the intense white blaze and looked at his men. “Mount as many men as we can spare and prepare to ride to de Lara’s aid. And there is enough powder left that you can take some pouches filled with the stuff to throw at any Scots foolish enough to get in your way.”

The knights were gone, leaving Stephen standing with Lane and watching the Scots fall away from the walls. It was soon readily apparent that no more Scots were willing to try and mount the walls so long as the fire burned. Stephen had a few men take whatever remained in the cauldron to sprinkle on the fire and refresh the flames. Then he had the men gather whatever peat and wood they could, stoking the blaze atop the walls so that the Scots would forget about trying to attack the walls again. So long as there was flame, Stephen figured, it would discourage both the Scots and their ladders.

Stephen rode out into the burning city to aid de Lara who, by that time, had managed to chase off most of his attackers. He was weary but in one piece. Tate and his men helped Stephen clear the city of the remaining rebels, who fled north. But they did not flee before inflicting as much damage as possible on the citizens of the city of Berwick. As dawn broke, Stephen and Tate returned to Berwick Castle and walls that were still flaming a brilliant white light that could be seen for miles. It looked like the entire castle was on fire, creating an eerie glow against the pink and purple sky.

Stephen headed straight for the vault and Kynan Lott MacKenzie.

THE SAVAGE CURTAIN

CHAPTER EIGHT

Joselyn had no
idea what time it was when she was awakened by soft noises in her chamber. It was bright in the room, indicating the late hour. Lying curled up on her side, she opened her eyes to see that Stephen was very carefully attempting to remove his boots. She lay there, not moving a muscle, as she watched him pull off first one boot and then the other, very carefully setting them down against the wall. He was trying desperately not to make any noise but in his weary state, he was not doing a very good job. She could hear him grunting and groaning softly as the boots and tunic came off. Finally, she took pity on him.

“You grunt like an old bear,” she said softly.

He pulled the tunic over his head, grinning down at her. “Is that so?” he tossed the tunic into the corner. “And you snore like one”

Her head came up, a frown on her lips. “I do not snore.”

He laughed softly, going to open the door and issuing orders to a soldier that was near the landing. He called for hot water and food before shutting the door and bolting it.

“Aye, you do,” he made his way over to the bed somewhat stiffly. “You make a very sweet whistling sound. I find it very charming.”

He sat down beside her and she lay her head back down again, studying the fatigue on his handsome face. Though the cornflower blue eyes were glimmering, she could tell that he was exhausted, perhaps spiritually as well as physically. It had been a very long night for them both and she was hesitant to ask him too many questions about the siege, fearful that she would not like his answers.

“Is the battle over?” she finally asked.

He nodded, raking his hand through his black hair. “For now,” he replied. “Hopefully we’ve given the Scots pause to think next time they try to attack the city. I would hope that peace will hold out for a time so that the citizens can at least recover.”

She thought a moment on that. “Between the English attacking the city and the Scots counter-attacking, I would imagine that everyone has had their fill of war.”

“Everyone but the Scots,” he grunted. “The city is in shambles.”

She propped herself up on an elbow. “I would like to help those put out by the constant warring,” she put her hand on his enormous thigh. “There must be something I can do for the citizens of Berwick.”

He put his massive hand over her small one. “’Tis a noble thought, but you have plenty to do at the castle,” he said. “Moreover, the city is still a dangerous place. I do not want you exposed to the hazards of a rebellion. There is no knowing when the Scots will attack again.”

She cocked her head thoughtfully. “But I am Scots. They would not harm me,” she squeezed his hand. “These are my people, Stephen. They are in distress and I feel very strongly that I must help. The constant battles have surely left them in great need.”

He opened his mouth but a knock on the door interrupted them. He went to the door, opening it to admit two soldiers with a big iron pot of steaming water and Tilda bringing up the rear with a wooden tray of food. Stephen took the food and chased everyone from the room. Bolting the door, he set the tray down and collected a large piece of bread from it; taking a huge bite, he faced his wife.

“How would you help?” he asked, chewing.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Attend those who are injured, perhaps provide food to those who have none,” she ventured with a shrug. “I would help however I can. I simply cannot stay locked in this keep, well away from those who are fighting for young David’s cause.”

He swallowed the bite in his mouth, his cornflower blue eyes taking on a peculiar gleam. “When you married me, your loyalty became to England.”

She fixed him in the eye. “When I married you, my loyalty became to you and only you. But that does not mean I do not feel concern or pity for my people.”

He regarded her a moment before the warmth returned to the blue eyes. “Well put,” he said. “But can I at least have a few hours of peace myself before I have to delve into this subject?”

She grinned and rose from the bed, moving to the wardrobe that was against the wall, the one that she and the servants had moved down from the upper floor. “Of course,” she said. “Sit and eat your food and I shall help you bathe when you are finished.”

He grunted yet again as he sat on the bed, feeling his fatigue in every fiber of his body. Plus, he was old for a fighting man at thirty years and seven. His body had taken a lot of abuse over the years and he was beginning to pay the price. He devoured most of the bread, the cheese and all of the wine as Joselyn removed some items from the wardrobe. He watched her as she set out a few squares of drying linen and the bar of white soap that smelled like pine. It was his soap. He had provided it to her to wash with because he had nothing else to offer. He made a mental note to purchase sweet-smelling soap for his wife that she would like better than his manly pine.

Joselyn was very busy as Stephen ate his meal. She was clad in a heavy shift, one of the newer garments he had bought her, and she quickly donned the old broadcloth surcoat over it to work in. It was still dusty and dirty, having been one of the only garments she owned up until two days ago, but she did not want to get any of her new clothing wet as she helped her husband bathe. Due to her chores at Jedburgh, she was well versed in things like washing or bathing, although she’d never personally washed a man. But she did not experience a flicker of apprehension as she prepared to help Stephen wash. She was, in fact, eager to do something for him. The man had so far done all of the giving since she’d known him and she was eager to give back something in return, as small a gesture as it was.

In fact, since their conversation the night before when all horrors had been revealed, she was extremely eager to make a life with this man who seemed so capable of forgiveness and understanding. With every moment that passed she was learning the character of this man whom she had married and her sense of gratitude grew. She never imagined herself to be so fortunate and she was determined never to take one moment of her new life, or new husband, for granted.

The pot with warm water was big enough for Stephen to sit in if she put a three legged stool in it. She looked over at her husband as he finished the last of his bread.

“Do you have a razor?” she asked.

He nodded, dipping his head in the direction of his bags against the wall. “In there.”

“May I retrieve it?”

He nodded and she went to his bags, carefully pulling items out and setting them on the floor until she came to a long steel razor wrapped in heavy linen. She removed it, and a horsehair brush, and went back to prepare his bath.

“I am ready when you are, my lord,” she told him, putting a little water on the pine soap and working it into a heavy lather with the horsehair brush.

Stephen brushed off his hands, stood up, and removed his breeches. He went straight to the pot and climbed in, seating his bulk on the stool. It was a tight fit in the pot but manageable. Joselyn turned to him with an empty bowl in her hand, smiled, and went to work.

Stephen sat with his eyes closed as the warm water coursed over him. It was the most relaxing, wonderful sensation he could imagine. He let his mind clear of all thoughts except for those of Joselyn as she hovered next to him, carefully pouring water over his head and body. She doused him several times before picking up the lathered brush, the soap, and going to work.

Stephen grunted as she began to soap him within an inch of his life. She vigorously soaped his back, his chest and his arms. She used the brush to scrub the gore and dirt from his hands, under his nails, before softly commanding him to lift his arms, which he did, fearful that his docile wife had suddenly turned militant on him. She soaped his armpits, ribs and belly before he was allowed to put his arms down again. He had tried, once, and she had growled at him. So the arms went back up and he grinned broadly.